


Slipshod

by LaurelSilver



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Other, Threesome - M/M/M, Trans Male Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4720778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy drags his darling boyfriends on a date. It doesn't go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipshod

**Author's Note:**

> Tommy is 2pAmerica  
> Maxime is 2pCanada  
> Nikolai is 2pRussia

_**Slipshod;**_   _characterised by a lack of care, thought or organisation_

* * *

"Oy, fucks!" Tommy greets noisily.

Nikolai almost drops his book, and fights the urge to throw it at Tommy's head. "What do you want?"

"Well;" Tommy hops over the back of the settee, landing heavily on Maxime mid-nap. He yells awake, shoving Tommy off onto the floor. Nikolai snorts with laughter.

"Time's'it?" Maxime grunts, scrubbing the heel of his hand into his eye.

"Time ya got dressed," Tommy retorts, "And dress nice; I'm taking you fucks on a date!"

Maxime pauses, narrowing his eyes at Tommy, "Where's this come from?"

"What?! Am I not allowed to take my  _darling_ boyfriends out on a date?"

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying, it's just that you...  _don't_."

"Yeah, well, I am doing, so put some clothes on. You too, Ruski!"

"What if we'd had plans?" Nikolai points out.

"When do you  _ever_ have plans?" Tommy points out, grabbing Nikolai by the elbow and dragging him towards the bedroom.

"So how 'nice' is 'dressing nice'?" Maxime asks, following the pair upstairs, "Because I fucking  _hate_ suits; there's far too many layers."

"Oh god, not  _suit_  nice," Tommy shoves Nikolai into their shared bedroom, the Russian hissing insults at him in his native language, "It's only a new restaurant-thing just off Southend. Where that dodgy pie shop used to be. Just stick a nice shirt on; you'll be good."

"If it's that near Southend, I think they will be grateful we have shirts on at all," Nikolai grumbles.

"Hey! It looked nice!" Tommy throws his balled-up vest at Nikolai, "I'm doing something nice for you, and you're both bitching! So fucking ungrateful."

"I'm not bitching!" Maxime snaps.

"Just shut up and get dressed!" Tommy snaps, buttoning up his only 'smart' shirt. Maxime gestures to his binder, and Tommy flips him the bird.

* * *

Tommy leads the way into the restaurant, drumming his fingers idly against the counter as they wait for someone to direct them to a table. The restaurant is loosely Italian-themed, with generic Italian posters, pictures of pasta, and the leaning tower of Pisa in a frame. Fake flowers sit in a straw hanging baskets, plastic vines reaching out and down, fingering Nikolai's hair as he leans back, getting caught in the knotted locks, and Tommy laughs out loud as Maxime has to untangle him from the cheap decorations. A large speaker sits in the doorway, blasting Italian ballads, the boxy equipment connected to an chunky laptop behind the bar, open on the music player with a grey list of songs and an alert in the corner that the software needs updating. A large, ugly green vase sits on a dresser near the open door, out of place with the rest of the decorations. The furniture mostly matches, a few tables at the back appearing to be older but a similar design, so the difference would be unnoticable in dim light, but a quarter of the large, square ceiling tiles are replaced with humming yellow lights, spaced apart to fill the room with as much bright, hot light as possible.

Someone pokes their head out from a door behind the bar, and on seeing them pulls a face that looks almost like a smile, "Eh! Nice to meet you, table for how many?" the voice is booming, accent like an American trying to be Italian for a mafia movie.

"Three," Tommy answers.

"Over here, follow me," the waiter says, marching past them and gesturing with his arm. He is quite short, with pale skin and bleach blond hair. His uniform is a simplistic white shirt with black trousers, a cheap kitten dish cloth thrown over his arm. He leads them to a round table by the open window, standing just out of the way to allow them to sit down. Nikolai and Maxime sit by the window, Tommy opposite it.

A waitress comes scuttling up, thin legs appearing shaky in high heels precarious on the tiled floor, to hand out paper menus. She gives a toothy smile stained with waxy red lipstick before clicking off to the bar.

"I can get you drinks?" the waiter offers, fake smile wavering into a sneer.

"A Black Russian, bottle of Molson, and a bottle of Bud," Tommy orders plainly, already searching through the menu.

The waiter nods, walking off with long strides. Tommy searches the menu with a frown, the paper boasting few vegetarian options, not to mention  _vegan_  options.

He throws the paper down onto his plate with a sigh. A large truck passes by, sending a gust of wind through the open window, and the menu flies up into Tommy's face. Nikolai laughs, and Tommy smacks him on the shoulder.

The waitress skitters back with a plastic tray far too large for three drinks. With Tommy's minimal guidance, consisting of her holding up a drink and Tommy pointing and grunting at the drinker, she puts the Black Russian in front of Nikolai, the Molson and glass of ice in front of Maxime, and the Bud and glass of ice in front of Tommy. "Are we ready to order?"

Maxime orders seafood linguine, Nikolai a t-bone steak medium-rare.

"Your pasta- is it  _all_  egg pasta?" Tommy asks.

"Yes, it is," the waitress answers.

"Okay, I'll just get a vegetable soup, thanks."

The waitress leans over Tommy to pick up the menus. As she straightens, Maxime realises she isn't wearing a name tag. She notices him looking at her breasts, sends him a glare, and turns sharply on her heel.

As soon as she's out of earshot, Tommy takes a glug of his Bud and frowns. "It's not even cold. It don't taste right when it's warm."

Maxime wraps his hand around his Molson. "Mine's warm too. At least we got ice." He pours his beer into the glass.

"Yeah, but there's just  _something_  about drinking your slosh straight out the bottle. It's part of the experience."

"I agree," Nikolai says, "Drinking vodka straight from the bottle is much different to shots or cocktails."

"Except a bottle of vodka isn't supposed to serve one," Maxime says.

"It is in Russia."

"I doubt that highly."

"There's lipstick on this," Tommy says, holding up the glass, peering at it, "Bright red lipstick."

Nikolai smacks his fingers against Tommy's lips then frowns at them, "Nope, definitely not your lipstick."

"Was that just an excuse to hit me in the face?"

"Yes."

Maxime takes the glass, ice cubes rattling against each other. The wrinkled red smudge clings around half of the rim, dried to a crust on the cold surface. "Do you want another one?"

"Nah," Tommy shrugs, "Like I said; drinking from the bottle's better anyway."

A draft whistles through the window, blowing out the flames on the candles of the tables around them. Tommy shivers involuntarily.

"How come there's candles on most other tables, but not this one?" Tommy whines.

"This table's laid for three, the rest are for couples," Nikolai says simply.

"Yeah, well obviously there are couples of three!"

"Not usually."

Maxime sighs, reaches behind him, and steals the candle from the next table. It is a cheap white candle shoved unceremoniously into the neck of a screw-top wine bottle, the bottle's label mostly scrubbed away, leaving only the patchy corners of glue. A few trails of wax have dripped down the candle, a couple reaching the wine bottle. Nikolai pulls out a zippo lighter and sets the wick aflame.

"Happy now?" he asks Tommy shortly.

"No, 'cause now  _that_  table ain't got a candle."

"I'm sure they'll bring a new one when they notice it's missing," Maxime cuts off the building argument.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the food has not arrived. The drinks are finished, and Tommy heads up to the counter to order more, both the waiter and the waitress having disappeared.

He leans on the counter, and watches the laptop on the floor behind the bar freeze, whoosh with air, chug it's CD drive, and load the next ballad.

Back at the table, Nikolai scrolls through a few feeds on his phone. He snorts suddenly.

"What?" Maxime asks.

" _We all know a guy with a tiny dick called Tommy,_ " Nikolai reads, "That's true."

"You have never complained before."

* * *

Another ten minutes pass. Tommy is still standing at the counter, the food still hasn't arrived, and the playlist of ballads has re-started.

Quietly, Tommy lifts the hinged section of the counter and closes it behind him. The Molson and Bud bottles are simply on shelves behind the bar, larger bottles of spirit on the floor under the window. Ice sits in a metal bucket, melting.

Tommy puts ice in two glasses, fills one with straight vodka, uncaps a Molson and a Bud, and takes the four back to the table.

Nikolai raises an eyebrow "No waitress?"

"Nope," Tommy answers, putting the drinks down, "Poured the drinks myself."

"Is that why I have straight vodka."

"Straighter than you are. And anyway;" Tommy grins as he puts on a terrible Russian accent; "In Soviet Russia, bottle of vodka is for one!"

"I said nothing about  _Soviet_  Russia."

"Yeah, well I'm an ignorant American so we're sticking with the Soviet jokes."

"How long have we been here?" Maxime cuts off another building arguement.

Tommy pulls his phone out of his pocket. "It's seven-thirty. So about a half-hour."

"It's not even busy in here; what's going on?"

"Great date, Tommy," Nikolai grumbles.

"Hey, it ain't my fault!"

"Don't fight!" Maxime barks, "I need a piss. Can you two behave while I'm gone?"

"Define 'behave'," Tommy retorts.

"Sit here without fighting or arguing."

"I suppose."

Nikolai nods, and Maxime stands up, leaving his chair pushed out. The bathroom is up a flight of steep, narrow steps, the doorway to the gentlemen's in an alcove at the top of the stairs, the ladies' around the corner.

The plaster on the walls is peeling, and painted over with an ugly lilac covering both the walls and the ceiling. The carpet under the urinals is ratty, worn, and slightly damp, the smell of stale piss heavy in the air. On the only stall a piece of paper reading "Out of order" in biro clings to the plastic of the door by two pieces of tape. At least the only people likely to come in are Tommy and Nikolai, both men already being aware of Maxime's pissing needs.

Maxime stands at one of the urinals, unzips his jeans, and pulls his piss stick, as honourably dubbed by Tommy, from its home in his front pocket. The Stand To Pee device is a rounded funnel Maxime has become familiar with using in recent years, but there have still been 'incidents' of some cis man spotting an unnaturally shaped penis and kicking off. And unfortunately, suggesting the man is perhaps a homosexual for peeping on other men's dicks while pissing is frowned upon in the queer community.

Done, Maxime shakes off the piss stick and fastens up his jeans. The sink is a cheap thing sticking out of the wall, with a bottle of blue hand soap and two cold taps. Maxime can only just fit the piss stick into the sink to rinse it off.

Footsteps stomp by the door. The waiter and waitress, clothes rustled and makeup smeared, stumble about. The waiter mumbles something to the waitress and she totters away down the stairs as the waiter heads into the bathroom. He gives Maxime an awkward nod of greeting, then pauses, staring at the device in Maxime's hand.

"The fuck is that?" he asks bluntly, bad Italian accent dropping instantly.

"S-T-P device," Maxime answers equally bluntly. He's had this conversation multiple times before, with several different outcomes.

"And what's one of those?"

"If you don't know what it is you probably don't need one."

The waiter stares at Maxime as he wipes the rinsed piss stick on the leg of his jeans and shoves it in his pocket, leaving quickly.

At the table, the food has finally arrived, Maxime almost walking into the waitress. Another draft, and the waitress' skirt flies up, the woman tottering awkwardly and glaring at the men at the table not even paying attention to her.

Nikolai frowns in confusion at a small jug on his rectangular plate. "Why have they given me gravy?"

"Why would they  _not_  give you gravy?" Tommy responds, "Gravy fries are the best."

"Ah yes, gravy fries; the epitome of American culture."

"That is not true and you know it!"

"No, more like gun deaths, school debt, and dying of treatable diseases because insurance costs more than your car is worth."

"Did I ask for an analogy of my homeland?" Tommy snaps, "No. No, I didn't. I know it's a load of bullshit, I don't need it reiterating to me in pretentious wording, thank you very much."

Nikolai laughs, dipping one of his fries in the gravy. Maxime twirls the forks in the linguine, the thin white sauce sloshing about. From what he can see, there is very little seafood in the pasta, but his expectations hadn't been high anyway. Tommy pokes at his soup with his spoon, a dessert spoon, with his lips pursed.

"I fucking knew it," he says plainly, and Maxime and Nikolai look up at him, "It's tinned veg."

"Oh no, end of the world," Nikolai says sarcastically.

"How would you like to be eating literally carrots, peas and sweetcorn shoved through a blender," Tommy says, "It tastes like baby food."

"Fitting, then."

Tommy sends Nikolai a glare. Re-positioning the spoon, he catapults a small amount of the thick soup at Nikolai. It flies too low to hit his face like Tommy had intended, but does hit his shirt.

"Tommy! This was new!" Nikolai growls, patting at the blended food with a napkin.

"Aw, I'm sorry," Tommy giggles.

"Was that really necessary?" Maxime scolds, getting up.

He heads to the bar, where the waiter and waitress stand, chattering quietly. They fall silent as Maxime approaches.

"Can I get a glass of water please?" Maxime asks.

The waiter simply stands in the corner, eyeing Maxime, as the waitress fills a glass at a tap. She practically throws it at the bar in front of him, spilling some of the water.

Maxime puts the water down in front of Nikolai to clean the developing stain in his shirt with a napkin. He sits back down, forking through the pasta for seafood.

"Okay, you had a point," Tommy admits, chin in his hand and elbow on the table, "This sucks."

"Somehow, more than you do," Nikolai says casually.

Tommy lines his spoon up to flick soup at Nikolai again. Maxime tuts, and reaches over the table to grab the spoon, knocking Nikolai's jug of gravy over. The gravy spreads over the table cloth, thin and runny.

"Nice," Tommy scrunches his nose at the mess.

Nikolai sighs, standing up. He heads to the bar, breaking up the waitstaff's whispering again. "Can you get me the manager?" he asks shortly.

"Oh  _shit_ ," Tommy hisses to Maxime.

The waitress clicks away, returning with a broad little man with a head that looks like it was carved out of a nut and clothes all different shades of military camouflage. "Oh dear," he says, Latinate roll heavy, "What seems to be the problem, sir?"

Nikolai remains calm as he recounts the experience had in the restaurant, starting with the waitstaff alternating between unwelcoming and vacant, to unclean crockery, to unpleasant food.

"And I was waiting at the bar for ten whole minutes!" Tommy calls across the tables, "I had to go behind the bar and serve the drinks myself 'cause there was nobody there."

"Please don't raise your voice in here, sir," the man scolds, "This is a respected establishment."

Tommy snorts, and Maxime kicks him, sending him a glare despite being on the verge of laughter himself.

"I'm sure we can sort this out quietly, no?" the manager says cheerily, grinning, his bushy mustache tilting to a quirky angle.

"Sort what out?" the waiter snaps indignantly, "They're just lying to get something free out of you!"

"You'd barely know anything that goes on down here- you weren't fucking here!" Tommy retorts.

"No, you were too busy banging upstairs," Maxime says plainly. He stands up, taking his jacket off the back of his chair, Tommy following suit and grabbing Nikolai's coat and scarf.

"Sir! Please don't accuse my staff of such things!" the manager gasps.

"Ain't no sir, that," the waiter grunts.

" _Excuse me_?" Nikolai says sharply, glaring darkly at the man.

"I've never met a 'sir' that needs a funnel to piss."

"Well now you have, haven't you?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand," the manager says.

"Doesn't matter," Maxime says dismissively, "We'll just take the bill, please."

The waitress holds out a card reader to the group, and Tommy slips his card in.

"He's a she, that's what it is," the waiter says gesturing at Maxime.

Without even pausing for thought, Nikolai grabs the waiter by the collar and throws him at the opposite wall, sending the man scuttling over the lino floor straight into the vase. The vase titters on it's edge before it topples off the dresser, smashing into an uncountable number of splinters, the pieces spinning over the floor and vanishing under tables.

The manager stares dumbly at the floor where the vase smashed.

"There was no need for that," Maxime whispers to Nikolai.

Nikolai simply grunts.

Tommy throws Nikolai's coat and scarf at the Russian and dashes out the door quickly. "I've paid, let's go."

Confused, Maxime gives Nikolai a shove, sending him out the door. They follow the American pacing away, Nikolai pulling his coat around him in the cold, scarf hanging from his mouth.

"Tommy, what's going on?" Maxime shouts.

Tommy stops at the corner, under the streetlights now starting to switch on in dimming sunlight. "I get the feeling the vase was expensive. Probably the most expensive thing in the room, but still more than I'd like to be paying. God fucking dammit, Ruski, control your temper."

Nikolai shrugs. "You'd have done the same if we had been stood in each other's positions."

Tommy glares at Nikolai, then sighs and nods.

Maxime groans. "Whichever one of you does it, there is no fucking need to send people flying at vases or walls or whatever else!"

"It was entertaining, though," Nikolai says, "He squeaked like a little pig."

"That's beside the point!" Maxime snaps. The trio reach the seafront and begin to wander along it, up on the cement path above the sand, in the vague direction of home. "What do you think that vase was even worth?"

"More than two dollars," Nikolai says.

"Eight million yen," Tommy guesses.

"Why  _yen_?"

"Why not?"

Nikolai rolls his eyes.

"The point is, the new Italian place sucks, and we won't go again," Tommy says plainly, wrapping an arm around Maxime's shoulders, "At least, until they change hands and it becomes some place new. Again."

"So in three weeks?" Maxime laughs. He runs his hand down Nikolai's arm and pulls his hand out of its hiding place in the coat pocket, interlacing their finger. Nikolai's fingers wrap around his hand, even if Nikolai pretends not to notice.

* * *

Maxime sits on the end of the bed, watching boredly as Nikolai tries, and fails, to slap Tommy away from sucking on his collar bone. Nikolai is completely undressed, Tommy only in his socks, Maxime topless and playing idly with his unfastened hair.

Tommy grunts as Nikolai finally shoves him off, landing heavily on his butt, almost slipping off the bed. Grumbling, he pulls one of his socks off and throws it at Nikolai, the wooly garment falling short. Nikolai ignores him, crawling over to Maxime, dragging him by the shoulder into a deep kiss.

Finally sockless, Tommy crawls up behind Nikolai. He cups one pale buttcheek in each hand and squeezes hard, digging his fingernails into the chubby flesh. Nikolai squeaks into Maxime's mouth, almost biting down onto his tongue.

"Don't do that," he growls, and Tommy just laughs.

"It's too nice a butt to not grab," he lets go and squeezes the cheeks again. He leans down, planting a kiss on his tailbone.

Nikolai gives a quiet groan as Tommy slides down onto his elbows, pushes the Russian's asscheeks apart with his hands and presses his face between, tongue darting out to lap at his hole teasingly. Nikolai drags Maxime into another kiss, fingers tangling into his hair tightly to the point of being almost painful.

Maxime's hands fly to Nikolai's neck, his body flexing to mould to Nikolai's. Nikolai pulls back to kneel up, straight into Tommy, forcing his body down into the sheets and his head backwards at an awkward angle.

Nikolai yelps in pain as Tommy reflexively bites him in the ass.

"Jesus fuck, don't do that!" Tommy sits up, rubbing his neck, "That was  _not_  comfortable!"

"I'll sit down heavier next time, then," Nikolai says plainly, "Just strangle you with my ass."

"Suffocate. I think you meant suffocate. Wait, no- don't kill me with your ass! Not that that would be a  _bad_  way to go."

Maxime rolls his eyes, "You two need to shut the fuck up."

"It's his fault!" Tommy cries, pointing at Nikolai, "He sat on my face! And I was not ready for my face to be sat on!"

"I did not  _sit_  on your face! I just… nearly did."

"Shut up!" Tommy drags Nikolai backwards, throwing him onto his back. He quickly throws his leg over the Russian's shoulder, sitting on his chest and sliding down until he's forcing his cock into Nikolai's face.

Maxime facepalms. He mounts Nikolai behind Tommy, Tommy arching his back as Nikolai wraps his lips around his tip and is sucking him in. Maxime grabs the lube, some sweet-smelling pink novelty stuff Tommy got from a souvenir market just off the seafront, and slicks his fingers, pressing one into Tommy.

Tommy leans forward to grip the headboard, arching his back and moaning long, loud and whorish, bucking down into Nikolai's mouth. Nikolai gags, shoving Tommy back into Maxime and coughing.

"Are you just trying to get us to asphyxiate each other?" Tommy snaps to Maxime.

"They were both accidents, I swear to God," Maxime says, pulling Tommy back to check Nikolai, "You okay?"

Nikolai nods. "Just don't let the stupid American do that again."

"I'm right here, you can just ask me," Tommy says.

"Yes, but you have absolutely no self control."

"Rude." Tommy flicks Nikolai on the nose. Nikolai just rolls his eyes.

Maxime gives Tommy a smack on the ass, and he jerks forwards, pushing Nikoli back down again. He reaches up, jerking Tommy off lazily as Maxime fingers him, Tommy bucking and groaning.

Nikolai stops, and snorts with laughter. Tommy stops moving, frowning down at the head between his thighs. "The fuck, dude?"

" _We all know a guy with a tiny dick called Tommy_ ," Nikolai giggles.

"What?"

"Something he saw on his phone when you were getting drinks," Maxime grunts.

"You have never complained about my dick!" Tommy snaps, "Well, no you have- that it wasn't moving fast enough or hard enough or deep enough or some bullshit. The only time you complain about my dick is when you can't get enough of it!"

"I can't get enough of it because there  _isn't_  enough of it!" Nikolais laughs even harder, chubby stomach rubbing against the inside of Maxime's jeans.

"God fucking-" Tommy dismounts Nikolai, pulling Maxime with him, and forcibly rolls Nikolai over onto his front.

He guides Maxime's hand, still slick with lube, to Nikolai's ass, smacking one of the cheeks repeatedly until Nikolai drags himself up onto his knees, legs spread. Maxime is rough as he forces his finger in, Nikolai giving a grunt into the sheet.

Tommy sits at the head of the bed, by Nikolai's arms and head braced against the mattress, running a hand idly through Nikolai's tangled hair, watching Maxime finger his spread ass with a devious smirk. As Maxime begins to fuck Nikolai on his fingers, the Russian failing to smother long groans in the crook of his elbow, Tommy pulls Nikolai up, making him kneel and sitting himself in front of him.

"Keep fingering him," Tommy leans around Nikolai to tell Maxime, "And pass me the lube."

Maxime tosses the bottle at Tommy and continues, wriggling away from Nikolai a little to readjust his arm. Nikolai bucks down on the hand, running his own hands through his hair and giving a lazy grin as he moans.

As Tommy's fingers join his, Maxime begins to pull away, expecting Tommy to want Nikolai to ride him. But Tommy grabs at his hand, their fingers slipping against each other. Tommy begins to finger Nikolai himself, two fingers barely past the first knuckle, slow and hard, massaging the soft skin there firmly.

Maxime copies, mimicking the circular motions. Nikolai grumbles and bucks down, trying to force the fingers deeper inside of himself, but Tommy wraps his other hand under Nikolai's thigh, holding him up. Nikolai whines loudly, grabbing Tommy by the shoulders and purposely digging his nails in, drawing blood. Tommy just laughs, moving even slower.

"My dick still too small for ya?" he teases, "Still too small?"

"Just fuck me," Nikolai growls, practically shaking Tommy.

Tommy laughs again, moving even slower. Maxime pulls away, sending Tommy a wink over Nikolai's shoulder as Nikolai whines in disappointment. Flopping over the bed, Maxime pulls the bottom drawer open and has to dig to the back to find the strap on he's looking for. A yellow jelly toy that looks like a series of four fat balls stacked on top of each other, it's just over an inch shorter than Tommy's length, designed to be more thick than long.

Maxime shoves his remaining clothes off, kicking them onto the floor and organising the strap on onto himself, having to wipe the lube on his fingers onto the sheets. Tommy is still fingering Nikolai carelessly, Nikolai braced forwards with his face buried in the crook of Tommy's neck, and Tommy shoots Maxime a toothy smirk at the sight of the toy.

Nikolai whines again when Tommy stops fingering him. Tommy instead holds him by the thighs, forcing him to keep his legs spread open. Maxime returns to behind the Russian, Nikolai not having seen the strap on, and rubs more of the lube over the rubber, careful to coat the dips well.

Maxime presses into Nikolai purposely slow, the ball stretching Nikolai, the pressure giving slightly as the widest section of the first ball passes the muscle. Maxime stops at the first ball, rocking ever so slightly.

Nikolai whines. The ball is only just over an inch in diameter; not large enough to hit his sensitive prostate, and the dips are much thinner than he's been stretched for. He tries to buck back against Maxime, but Tommy adjusts his hold quickly, fingers digging into the back of his upper thighs, holding him up and open.

"I'm sorry, is this not enough?" Maxime asks Nikolai, slowing down his rocking to a gentle grind.

"No," Nikolai whines into Tommy's neck.

"Do you want more?"

"Yes."

"It doesn't sound like you do." Maxime presses forwards slowly, pulling away just before the widest girth of the second ball can touch Nikolai.

Nikolai groans as the first ball is forced onto his prostate and pulls away again. He grips Tommy tighter, mouth open against his neck, teeth grazing his skin. Maxime gives his thigh a firm smack and he jolts, almost biting Tommy, before he pulls away and arches his back to try to kneel up to speak.

"Please," he gasps out, voice strangled with pleasure, "Please, please,  _please_  fuck me."

"See, you can ask nicely," Tommy teases.

Nikolai falls back forwards, leaning on Tommy and digging his teeth into his shoulder. Tommy gives a yelp of pain then laughs it off, Maxime pulling Nikolai back by his hair.

With a smooth jerk of Maxime's hips, the strap on is buried mercilessly inside Nikolai, the jaw left dropped open after the sharp intake of breath. Maxime pulls out, able to feel a slight give after the widest girth of each ball passes Nikolai's muscle. He pulls out until only one ball is still inside Nikolai before he presses back in, hard and fast.

Nikolai gives out a long moan, face almost nose-to-nose with Tommy's as Maxime holds his head back. Maxime's free hand on Nikolai's hip, Tommy lets go his thighs to hold him by the wrists instead as they drop from clinging to his shoulders. Nikolai groans, fighting weakly against Tommy's grip, eyelids fluttering but Nikolai is too worked up and horny to send Tommy one of his death glares.

His moans climb in volume and pitch, his hands reaching back to Tommy's shoulders as his eyes roll to the back of his head. Nails digging in hard, he practically screams as he orgasms, Maxime continuing the beautifully rough pace until the scream dies down into pleasured gasps, Nikolai limp between his boyfriends' bodies. Maxime lets go of his hair, pulling out. Nikolai grunts.

Tommy sits back, dragging Nikolai with him. Manhandling the Russian until he's kneeling over his lap, he pulls Nikolai down onto his cock. Nikolai groans deep in his throat, still sensitive after his orgasm, Tommy longer then Maxime's chosen dick.

Tommy fucks faster than Maxime, less worried about hurting Nikolai and more interested in hitting his own orgasm. Already sucked and tossed close to orgasm, Tommy cums deep inside Nikolai, the Russian not even half-hard again.

They collapse down onto the bed, Nikolai heavy on top of Tommy. Maxime returns from the bathroom, his boyfriends barely having noticed his absence, with a towel. He cleans up Nikolai, already half-asleep, and lets Tommy wipe himself before cleaning the wet lube off the strap on and throwing the towel into the laundry basket.

Tommy shoves Nikolai off of him, dragging Maxime in between them. He pinches the insides of Maxime's thighs gently until his legs open, Nikolai running his hand lazily down Maxime's stomach, over his clit and spreading his lips open slowly before pressing two fingers in, slightly curved. Tommy gives Maxime's inner thigh a soft squeeze before he flicks Nikolai's wrist and presses his fingers under the Russian's hand, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Maxim's swollen clitoris, circling it lazily out of sync with Nikolai's quickening pace.

Maxime's back arches, his fists twisting into the pillow behind his head as he gasps and grunts incoherently. He spasms, spine curving off the mattress and toes curled under, voice muted in pleasure. His legs shake involuntarily in orgasm, the pillow curled around his head and his mouth dropped open in a long, guttural groan.

Tommy wipes his hand carelessly on the sheet, Nikolai sucking on his like a child.

"I just threw the towel in the basket," Maxime growls.

"I ain't leaving the bed," Tommy retorts, "And let Ruski have his little whore moment."

Nikolai reaches over Maxime, wiping his wet fingers on Tommy's cheek.

"Mature," Tommy says plainly.

Nikolai's answer is simply a grunt. He curls tighter into Maxime's side, head on his chest, tips of his fingers back in his mouth. Tommy leans off the bed and pulls the duvet up from where it had been thrown on the floor, slinging it over Nikolai and Maxime before he lays down on his side next to him. Maxime keeps his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep already, as Tommy's arms wrap around his, hugging it to his chest.

* * *

 

_**Slipshod** ; characterised by a lack of ~~care,~~ thought or organisation _

**Author's Note:**

> Can't do endings. Haven't done much NSFW before. I feel like that shows.  
> Inspired by a mix of posts from the only 2pAmeCanRus blog I know of; Teostrax. And then it got a bit out of hand.
> 
> Nikolai totally sucks his fingers when he's tired I did not just make that up out of nowhere.


End file.
